


broken things

by sparxwrites



Series: Of Leather, Sex, and Violence [1]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Bullying, Dom/sub Undertones, Fighting Kink, Finger Sucking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Out, Masochism, Teencast, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3161270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh dear,” he says, quiet and sympathetic and altogether fake as he eyes the shift of Parvis’ shoulders at the words, the way he braces for a punch or a fight despite the fact he can barely breathe. It’s amusing, almost endearing, and his defiance in the face of slightly ridiculous odds is, in Kirin’s opinion, something very close to beautiful. “That looks uncomfortable.”</p><p>“Whaddya wan’?” asks Parvis, a hunched curl of anger and suspicion amongst overflowing rubbish bins and dirty puddles. The words are thick with the blood streaming from his nose, smeared down his face over his lips and chin and cracking as it slowly dries. “Pith ob.”</p><p>(In which Kirin 'saves' Parvis for decidedly non-altruistic reasons, and it's not entirely certain that Parvis wanted to be saved.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	broken things

**Author's Note:**

> a very belated prequel to mine and 3ffloresce's sleazy leather au thing.
> 
>  **warnings** for violence, blood/bruises, bullying, masochism, dom/sub undertones, and general unpleasantness. all the things in the tags, really.

Kirin takes the long way home from school some days. Not for any particular reason other than he hates to develop habits, hates to get into routines that make him predictable and dull and careless. Changing routes home, he’s discovered, is a good way to find all sorts of interesting things.

He’s definitely found something interesting today.

“Get the fuck off of me!” yells a voice from somewhere to Kirin’s right, half-familiar and entirely pissed off. “You pieces of-” The voice breaks off with a faint, meaty sound of a fist connecting with something soft followed by a barely audible wheeze and another string of snarled curses. They’ve got a rather breathier note to them this time, though.

Kirin pauses, curious, trying to work out who, exactly, the voice belongs to. He knows them, he’s sure of it – probably from school, given the lack of teenage friends in his social circle outside of it – but he can’t quite pinpoint their face or name.

The commotion seems to be coming from an alley just up ahead, a gap between two run-down council housing towers for bins to get left and rubbish to be dumped, and Kirin keeps close to the building as he peers down into the alley.

There’s a kid on his knees in the middle of it, trying to push himself to his feet with one arm and covering his head with another. Kirin recognises him – knows his name as Parvis from the times it gets snapped by teachers, turns up on detention lists, gets muttered by kids looking to get hold of alcohol or cigarettes or weed – and watches, curiously, as one of the three people circling him kicks at the arm he’s using to push himself upright.

Parvis drops back to the floor with a thump and a snarl, knees cracking against the uneven paving. He raises his head, teeth bared, and spits crimson saliva in the person’s face.

“You little-!” They punch him, hard, and his head snaps to the side. There’s an audible crunch from his nose, blood suddenly streaming over his mouth and down his chin, and he doubles over with hands flying to his face.

It’s when another of the people grabs his hair, drags his head back hard enough to make him gasp so they can see his face crumple in pain when their friend kicks him in the stomach, that Kirin decides to intervene.

“Hello, friends,” he says, cheerfully, one hand in his pocket and the other raised in a small wave as he walks into the alley. They all turn, almost as one, at the sound of his voice – even Parvis blinks at him in something approaching surprise, although with blood covering most of the lower half of his face and one eye slowly swelling shut, it’s a little hard to tell.

The boy holding Parvis’ hair doesn’t let go, and Kirin smiles, thin and tight. “How are we today?”

“Piss off,” snaps the one that kicked Parvis in the stomach, scowling. “Get the fuck outta here, mate, this’s got fuck-all to do with you.” There’s a vague rumble of agreement from the other two, although the one with a fist in Parvis’ hair squints at him. He, at least, knows enough about Kirin – rich kid, golden boy, captain of the rugby team – to be wary.

Kirin doesn’t exactly have a _reputation_ , per se. No one knows enough about him for that. There are, however, an awful lot of rumours.

He grins entirely unpleasantly, too many teeth in his smile and too much malicious glee in his eyes. “Well, that’s rude. I was only trying to be friendly. I suppose I’ll leave if you really insist.” He pulls his other hand out of his pocket with his phone clutched in it, and raises it to face height. “Pose for a picture first, though?”

They scatter faster than Kirin would have thought possible, although the panicked edge to their speed is certainly gratifying. He laughs as they run, doesn’t bother to chase them – though he has little doubt that they’d be easy targets if had. It’s just that his interest is rather more focused on the teen still on his knees on the filthy floor, one hand cupped under his nose and the other wrapped around his stomach as he wheezes wetly.

Broken things have always fascinated Kirin, and this one is no exception.

“Oh dear,” he says, quiet and sympathetic and altogether fake as he eyes the shift of Parvis’ shoulders at the words, the way he braces for a punch or a fight despite the fact he can barely breathe. It’s amusing, almost endearing, and his defiance in the face of slightly ridiculous odds is, in Kirin’s opinion, something very close to beautiful. “That looks uncomfortable.”

“Whaddya wan’?” asks Parvis, a hunched curl of anger and suspicion amongst overflowing rubbish bins and dirty puddles. The words are thick with the blood streaming from his nose, smeared down his face over his lips and chin and cracking as it slowly dries. “Pith ob.”

Kirin sighs, shakes his head, and crosses the space between him and Parvis in two strides. “Such a filthy mouth,” he says, almost absently, and pretends he doesn’t notice the way the smaller boy recoils from him, brings up ruined, bloody knuckles as if in preparation for a fight. “And to someone who’s just helped you as well. No wonder you get into so much trouble.”

“Ye’h, we’w-” Parvis braces himself, and then exhales sharply through his nose, wincing with the pain of it. It clears things out a bit, though, fresh blood dribbling down over his lip and clotted chunks caught on his palm.

He wipes it off on the floor, pulls a face. “Yeah, well. That’s none of your fucking business, is it?” He spits blood onto the dirty pavement, wrinkles his nose in disgust. It tugs at the cuts and blooming bruises on his face in interesting ways, turns his skin into a beautifully ruined canvas. Kirin’s tongue darts out to lick at his lips – not that Parvis notices, preoccupied by trying to get to his feet. “Fucking golden boy teacher’s pet, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

There’s a hand around his throat before he can blink, dragging him upright and pinning him against the wall. “I’d suggest being a little more polite, if I were you,” says Kirin, mildly, dragging the back of one finger down the side of Parvis’ face. “I’m not _entirely_ averse to finishing what the others started, if I have to.”

A heartbeat, and then Parvis giggles. The sound’s high and thin and not entirely sane, and he licks at the blood on his chin, grins wide with crimson teeth. “Pretty boy’s got a _bite_ with that smile!” he says, sounding delighted. “ _Fantastic_.”

“Watch who you’re calling pretty boy,” says Kirin, dryly, sliding fingers sideways to press against Parvis’ broken nose, hard enough to be a warning, and his eyebrows shoot up when Parvis’ hiss of pain turns into a faintly delighted whine that he can’t quite suppress. “Oh. How _interesting_.”

Parvis snarls, a noise of defiance that’s betrayed by the tail end of the whine still stuck in his throat, and snaps at Kirin’s fingers.

Kirin slaps him for that, hard enough to leave a red handprint over the bruises, and Parvis yelps with the unexpected sting of pain, the deeper spreading ache of the bruises already layered over his skin. His mouth falls open, gasping, and Kirin takes the opportunity to press in and kiss him.

It’s hot and wet and hungry, and Parvis mewls into it, tilts his head back for Kirin and opens his mouth wider.

There’s nothing nice about the kiss. It’s hard and biting and Kirin’s nose presses uncomfortably against Parvis’ own, despite his best attempts to turn his head and ease the pressure. His blood throbs in time to his heartbeat, breath strangling in his chest, and by the time Kirin pulls away with bloodied lips he’s panting.

“I think,” says Kirin, calmly – as if he isn’t casually licking Parvis’ blood off his lips, as if Parvis isn’t trembling in the aftermath of the kiss, “that you should come home with me. Let me get all that blood cleaned up.” He brushes a thumb through the mess of it beneath Parvis’ nose and then licks it clean, humming faint approval.

He reaches out again to rub a thumb over Parvis’ cheek, before slipping sideways, pressing against half-parted lips. Pushing the thumb inside, he smiles when Parvis opens up and lets him, when Parvis trails a curious tongue over the whorls of Kirin’s fingerprint and whines when he pulls away. “Hmm?”

“Yes,” says Parvis, faintly, eyes wide, the taste of Kirin’s saliva and his own blood lingering on his tongue. “Oh, yes. Please.”


End file.
